When You Wish Upon a Star
by Elena Kansi
Summary: After a particularly horrible day, Draco Malfoy wishes that he could trade his life with that of Harry Potter.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I'm saying this only once. I don't own. Song is Disney, world is Rowling's.

In this story, Lucius Malfoy is OOC. This affects everyone else in different ways. Set in the summer after Voldemort's rising.

* * *

When you wish upon a star,  
Makes no difference who you are,  
When you wish upon a star,  
Your dreams come true.

Chapter 1  
Be Careful What You Wish For

The day started like any of the other countless, hot, stuffy ones at Malfoy Manor that summer. When the sun was just barely over the horizon, and the sky was streaked with pinks and oranges, Draco woke. He was the only human being awake in the house. It was peaceful. It wouldn't be so in several hours when the house elves woke everyone to administer the hangover reliever.

Everyone wasn't just his mother and father- no, everyone else included all the Death Eaters in the upper circle, and quite a few others besides.

So, to make things quite clear, a lot of people who enjoyed causing pain, who were very sadistic, and armed to the teeth were getting pissed every night, and to top it all off, staying at the manor. This did not bode well for Draco.

_But oh, the cause for celebration, isn't it just _grand, Draco thought, somewhat angrily, before stopping himself and looking around in fear. He had learned last year that he wasn't even safe in his own mind anymore. That scared him more than anything the Death Cronies would get up to while drunk.

The Dark Lord had finally returned in all his dark glory, and there had been almost non-stop feasting ever since. The Dark Lord had been tolerant of it at first, but Draco knew it wouldn't be long now before he demanded something meaningful of his followers, some test of loyalty, some pain.

With a shudder and a wince, Draco carefully eased himself out of his lavish king sized bed and hobbled over to the floor-length mirror. Despite the fact it was summer, Draco was shivering as he looked himself over critically. He had a black eye. That was new. And surprisingly visible. It probably wasn't from his father, his father was more careful than that. No, Lucius Malfoy liked to hit where it wouldn't show.

Sure enough, as he lifted his shirt, a sunrise of mottled, half-healed bruises appeared. He winced and poked himself, to see how bad it was. He clenched his teeth, and hissed in pain, but nothing was broken, so he wouldn't risk stealing potions from the stories. Or rather, he couldn't risk ordering a house elf to nick it without telling his father.

Maneuvering carefully, so as not to jar anything, he limped over to his bureau and pulled out some fresh robes to wear. When he was dressed, she snapped his fingers and called imperiously, "Dribble. Dribble, get in here this instant."

As usual, Draco had time to think what a ridiculous name that was before there was a soft pop and a short, slightly greenish coloured house elf in a dark green dishtowel popped into view.

"The master is wanting Dribble?" the creature piped in a high, reedy voice, understandably nervous.

"I'll be taking breakfast in the library. Make my favorites." It didn't matter that he had no appetite.

The thing twisted his fingers. "But little master, big master is saying-"

"I don't care what my father said!" he snapped. "Just do it!" He aimed a weak, half-hearted kick at the poor creature. It yelped and disappeared in a terrified pop.

_Good,_ he thought grimly, _it's about time I got a little respect around here_.

Still, the whole encounter put him in a foul mood, instead of causing the elation it so clearly elicited in his father whenever people looked at him fearfully. Yet by the time he got to the library, his foul mood evaporated at the sight of food. There were scrambled eggs and bangers and mash and chocolate crêpes, waffles and rich syrup. It smelled so appetizing. The elves, as usual, had outdone themselves.

Even unwatched, he was the model of decorum as he crossed to the lounge chairs and temporary table erected for him. It was only once he was seated that he fell upon his food like a starving wolf. It was only after he stuffed the last crêpe into his mouth that he remembered that he hadn't been hungry in the first place. In fact, he was feeling slightly ill.

Sure enough, not even ten minutes later, Draco could be seen racing the halls for a water closet to puke his guts out in. He barely made it, and every time stomach acids came up his throat, and his food was regurgitated, every time his stomach clenched, fresh waves of dizzying pain washed over him. He kept dry heaving long after his body was void of anything to vomit.

Distantly he was aware of a soft pop and then there was a soft, cool washcloth pressed to his forehead and making him feel a little better.

"Poor master Draco," a raspy, yet identifiable voice crooned. "Master should not be out of bed, oh no, not when master is having a fever." The speaker was a small wrinkled house elf.

Draco paused and gulped down a dry heave long enough to snap, "I can take care of myself Fina," but there was no real venom in his voice. Fina had been his nursemaid when he was little, had always taken care of him when he was ill, and was the only house elf he couldn't intimidate.

"Come now, little master," she murmured, rubbing circles on his back. "Fina will take poor master to bed, and Fina will be fetching potions, yes Fina will."

Carefully, the old elf assisted the boy up the stairs and to his room. To anyone else, this would have been a comical sight, but to Draco it was humiliation, and to his father and Death Eater friends, it would have been a deadly insult. Still, Draco did nothing to stop the elf, and allowed himself to be tucked into his bed.

"Rest here little master," Fina commanded, her long, bony fingers sweeping his hair out of his eyes. She popped away, but was back in moments clutching several vials of disgusting looking potions. "Here master," she said, taking out the stopper on a green potion and holding it so Draco could drink it. He was shivering as she poured the vile potion down his raw, inflamed throat. He coughed and spluttered, but managed to keep most of it down. He slowly became aware of Fina muttering furiously to herself.

"-must punish Fina like a good house elf, oh yes, Fina is a good house elf. But Fina is bad for disobeying big master so-"

Draco reached out a hand to her. "No, stop. I order you not to punish yourself."

"But master-"

"No," he said as firmly as he could, trying to sound commanding like his father, and not like the poser he usually was. "Your punishment will be that you can't punish yourself." He began to feel lightheaded from exhaustion and the potion. Despite the night of sleep before, he was already drifting off. He must've been sicker than he thought.

* * *

When he came to, he felt much better, but with absolutely no appetite whatsoever, despite it being three in the afternoon. What woke him became apparent when someone banged on his door.

_Oh great_, he thought, pulling himself upright. _The sods are awake_. As he went to open the door, he wondered who would knock, certainly not his father or the house elves. As he yanked open the door, he saw that his answer went by the name of Severus Snape, Illustrious potion master, and Draco's head of house.

"What do you want?" It came out more rudely than intended, but no matter.

The potions master looked at the boy in front of him and felt a surge of pity. But there was nothing he could do, and the boy clearly did not want any help.

"The Dark Lord is coming, tonight," he uttered stiffly, and turned to go, thereby missing the look of utter horror, or was that terror? On the boy's face. And then the potions master was gone, cloak billowing ominously behind him as he went down the staircase.

Draco shut the door and fought to calm the racing of his heart. Still, he didn't have total control and in a moment adrenaline was running through his veins and he was now resisting his fight-or-flight instincts.

He forced himself to calmly go to his water closet and examine his reflection critically. While he didn't look like hell, it was still a close call.

A simple cleaning charm cleared up his teeth, and a comb did wonders for his hair. Yet, as he looked again, he realized that he was going to have to shower to get the remains of sweat and vomit off of himself.

After the shower, Draco found his best dress robes and donned them. He knew he should be resting, but if he didn't appear before the Dark Lord now, there'd be hell to pay later.

Gingerly, he put on a waist holster under his outer robes and tightened it until it was snug, but not uncomfortable. Finally, he put on his public face and descended the stairs into chaos.

House elves were everywhere trying to clean to Lucius's satisfaction. Narcissa was directing two thugs with wands where to levitate tables and chairs out in the garden. Draco made himself inconspicuous, sticking around long enough to learn the Dark Lord planned to arrive around seven before running off to the abandoned wing of the house, careful not to get anything on his robes. He reached a dead end hallway and then paused, checking for anyone watching him. Then, he pulled on a wall sconce and a section of paneling clicked. Draco pushed it aside and closed it behind him once he'd climbed through.

He fumbled for his wand a moment in the dark, but then a quick _Lumos_ illuminated the passage quite nicely.

The passage was clean, thanks to Fina, and while a little cramped, not that uncomfortable. There were stairs to climb and then suddenly he emerged in a little room, one that was all his own, his safe haven.

He had found it as a young boy, skipping his etiquette lessons in favor of exploring his mansion. Even young as he was, he knew his family name and history well enough to know that they had things they wanted hidden from the rest of the world.

So he explored. He found passages and rooms, but little interested him until this one, it just called to him. Excited, he had looked for more, and stumbled upon his father's cache of dark objects. Needless to say he'd been punished quite severely and discouraged from exploring any more.

But he had here. It had probably been a secret rendezvous point, or the room for one of his great grandfather's paramours, but whatever it'd been, it had long since been forgotten. Draco had wasted no time getting Fina and her crazy son Dobby to fix up the place. They were the only elves he could trust not to tattle. They were very odd elves, with absurd notions.

So he threw himself in a puffy blue armchair by the window. Blue, his real favourite colour dominated the room, and it was such a relief from the ostentatious green opulence everywhere.

He watched the winds in the fields for awhile, practiced some occlumency techniques, and did some summer homework. It was such a nice day, the only thing stopping him from going out and flying for a bit was the fact that he needed to stay presentable looking.

He emerged from his sanctuary around six, because he guessed the Dark Lord might arrive a little bit early, just to catch them all off guard, and then punish them for it. It was a game his father liked to play as well. And, as it turned out, he was right. Not even ten minutes after he came down, the temperature dripped by twenty degrees, and with a crack like thunder, the king snake himself appeared.

His followers, all wearing the dark robes and holding their masks, prostrated themselves on the ground. Feeling out of place, Draco followed suit. They all sat there, not daring to look up or even move a muscle. As much as fifteen minutes passed while the Dark Lord arranged himself on the couch and surveyed his followers.

"Rise," he commanded silkily, at last.

Draco looked at him surreptitiously as he straightened, curious. The Dark Lord's pale, bloodless snake face, and red eye slits were much scarier up close, yet he arranged himself gracefully, lounging while his followers remained stiff and uncomfortable. He simply radiated power, just like people radiated heat. It was incredible and terrifying, all at once.

A hissing, manic noise was emanating from the Dark Lord's throat, and it took Draco a second to realize the… _thing_… was laughing. At them. And they were supposed to just roll over and take it, to laugh along, he realized a second too late.

Then they were all looking at him, and the room was eerily silent, save for the crackling of the fire in the ornate fireplace.

The Dark Lord broke the silence. "My, my, Lucius, this is your protégé, I presume." His spindly fingers were twirling his wand carelessly, but yet somehow managed to be menacing at the same time.

"Yes milord," Draco's father replied, bowing low again and not rising.

Lord Voldemort beckoned with one finger and suddenly Draco was being pulled along by invisible strings. It was very disconcerting. Draco stopped just shy of the chair the Dark Lord was using as his throne, and with another flick, his arms went up, and he rotated slowly like a prized vegetable on display.

Draco felt the crimson blush of humiliation spread over his pale features. Everything was silent and still, even the fire seemed to have stopped its talking. The only movement was that of Narcissa, going to stand behind her husband.

Lord Voldemort was taking his time, he was toying with Draco. But at last it seemed the Dark Lord had seen all he needed to see, and with a final flick of the fingers, Draco was dropped unceremoniously. Not expecting it, he crumpled on the carpet.

Ignoring this, the Dark Lord addressed Lucius. "He is a fine pureblood specimen. In time, he might be a valuable addition to my ranks." He licked his lips, tongue darting fast, like a snake. "Or not."

With a slightly manic expression of pain that must've been a grin, the Dark Lord conjured up a silver mask identical to the ones the other Death Eaters all grasped, and held it out to the blond boy, who had by now climbed back to his feet.

"Do you want this, child?"

Draco, not trusting himself to speak, just nodded curtly, and glanced side-long at his father, who for once in his life had something akin to approval on his face. Lord Voldemort held out the mask, and Draco accepted it hesitantly. This was everything he had wanted and more… wasn't it? To be powerful, skilled, and respected. To inflict upon others what had been inflicted upon him. To instill fear in his enemies eyes. Then why was he feeling such dread? Why didn't it make him happy?

The moment his trembling fingers touched the silver, his eyes snapped up to meet the Dark Lord's. The red eyes bore into his own, searching his soul, and then suddenly the monster was in his mind. Weakly, he tried to call up his defenses, but it was too late. Voldemort was rifling through his memories and intentions. It hurt. Merlin, it _hurt_!

All Draco's fears, all his hopes, triumphs, and failures were exposed in a blinding haze of pain. He knew he was probably screaming, but he didn't care. He just wanted it to end, oh Merlin how he wanted it to end. He wanted to be dead, he wanted the mind rape to stop. But it just kept going, and going.

Hazily, because things stopped being clear when he first felt the Dark Lord in his mind, he felt the snake pause a moment to examine a particular memory. For a moment, it felt like he was reliving it, and the ghost of pain blossomed on his face where the mudblood had punched him third year.

The Dark Lord went back to searching, but for what, Draco didn't know, or care. He just wanted him out. The Dark Lord paused again, this time it was a memory of a Gryffindor v. Slytherin quidditch match. He had lost to Potter. The feel of defeat was a strong as it was on that day, the sting not eased a whit.

There were more memories, mostly of defeat and shame, as well as some triumphs. Despite the pain, Draco had a moment of brief lucidity and realized that all his memories that were being examined were about the Golden Trio, mostly Potter, in one way or another. He felt disgust, jealously. Of course, he should've known. Everything was about stupid Potter.

Suddenly, with no warning, he was free, and the Dark Lord was laughing harshly, contemptuously. "I see you are not quite mature enough for my ranks yet." He suddenly turned so very serious, and brought his face right down to where Draco was sprawled on the floor. "I know what's in your head. I see what you think, and I require complete loyalty. Or, at least complete fear," he whispered chillingly. His face contorted and he made some hissing noises. Draco bit back a yell as a real snake came sliding around the chair and over his legs. The Dark Lord laughed, taking pleasure from others' pain and fear.

Draco scrambled to his feet and backed away. The Dark Lord, done with his displays of emotion, turned stone again. "Now, I have business to conduct, and little, insecure boys can be no part of that. Leave."

Draco didn't need to be told twice. He was just lucky to get away without being tortured more. Already, as he rounded a corner three hallways away, he could hear the screams of some unlucky fool. He shuddered and thought, _Why would anyone sign up for that_?

So Draco, once again utterly humiliated and jealous and hurt, feeling inadequate, though he couldn't articulate that he was feeling all of those, did what he did best. Threw a tantrum.

He was too dignified- no, too well trained to scream or crying, as much as he wanted to. No, instead he went off to another unused wing of the house, to an empty bedroom, and grabbed a very ugly, expensive looking green vase. With one smooth motion, he threw it as hard as he could against the opposite wall. It shattered into a million billion tiny pieces that sprinkled down and abated some of Draco's anger.

"Lully!" he shouted, and a small, quivering house elf appeared. "Clean that up now!" he snarled, pointing to the shards on the ground, and then kicked her to get her moving.

He could have just waved his want and then poof, everything would've been fixed. (His father bribed ministry officials to let him practice magic over the summer.) Yet he didn't. When he was hurting, he felt that others should be hurting as well. And besides that, he didn't think he would work magic with such a splitting headache. He sat on the bed, just for a moment, to rest his eyes, and ease his throbbing head.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, Darkness had truly fallen and Lully was gone. So was the mess.

_With all the shut-eye I've been getting, it's doubtful I'll be able to sleep tonight,_ he thought grimly. _Too bad_.

It was going to be a bad evening for him, when he saw his father. It would be worse if he tried to avoid it. He sighed, _might as well get it over with_. His knew father was probably in the garden, drinking. He also knew the Dark Lord was gone. The manor, usually oppressive and sad, had taken on a distinctly malicious feel when the Dark Lord had been on the grounds.

As he wandered the halls, slowly delaying the inevitable, he thought. _Why don't I fight my father? I'm was big enough now, I could take him. Why don't I run?_

The little, cynical voice in his head responded. _Because I'm a Malfoy. Because I'm terrified. Because I have nowhere to go. Because it'd be worse if I did._

Utterly ashamed of himself (this seemed to be a constant state for him in the summer), knowing _Potter_ would've done something, anything, Draco slunk down to the garden party.

The first person he saw was Yaxley, who leering at him menacingly, so he quickly moved on to greet his mother. She sat stiffly, the only hint of any inebriation were two high spots on her face. He kissed her cheek and murmured a greeting, as well as apologized for missing the party.

He had just straightened when he felt a cane come down on his shoulder, and it pulled him backwards. It was his father's snake cane, he knew, and now he was going to have puncture wounds to heal the next morning.

"So Draco," his father said silkily, and the trembling blond just wished his father would shout at him. Shouting meant he wasn't actually that angry—it was only when Lucius used that quiet tone that Draco knew he was truly in for it.

"You shamed the Malfoy name tonight, boy," his father whispered, lowering his head so as to do so in his son's ear.

While there was alcohol on his father's breath, it wasn't as much as usual, meaning, Draco realized with a gulp, the beating would be much more… accurate than usual. Draco tensed, his fingers curling into fists, and he felt his father laugh.

"What? Going to fight me?" his tone was mocking, and it pained Draco to know that his father was right in doubting him. Draco wasn't going to do anything. "You're weak, boy, soft. You'd never last in the Dark Lord's service." He paused, to make this last statement emphasized. "You're pathetic."

Draco cringed, and knew his father would take pleasure from hitting a nerve. Draco had tried to do everything to please his father, to make his father love him, but it just wasn't enough.

Lucius pulled out a wand covertly and pointed it at Draco, who looked around nervously. _Is he going to do this right here in public, is he_? he thought wildly before a feeling of total bliss washed over him. He gazed around happily, doing nothing until a voice told him to go to the drawing room and stay there. It was such a nice voice, so of course Draco complied.

The happy feeling lasted for around half an hour more, until a pale blond man entered and locked the doors behind him.

He muttered something, and all Draco's feelings came crashing back, along with the clench of dread in his stomach. He now realized what had happened. His father had cast an unforgivable on him. On _him_!

Emotions chased each other across Draco's brain. Anger, shame, sadness, and a random stab of jealousy. Stupid Potter would have been able to resist the imperious. But stupid Potter didn't have parents who would cast it on him. Then again, scar-head didn't have parents at all. That made Draco feel a little better. No matter that Potter had friends who cared, destiny, and fame, Draco had parents, and that made all the difference.

No matter that one of the parents in question was looking at him like a hawk might look at his prey, and no matter Draco was tensing to run. In his mind, this, this relationship with his father was better than being parent-less like Potter.

Then Lucius came at him. He was so lost in thought that it took him a second too long to react. Lucius's cane came down as he turned, catching Draco in the legs making him fall. The glint in his father's eyes made him very afraid, and he hated himself for it.

His face was pressed into the plush green carpet, and he felt, rather than saw his father looming over him with his wand out.

"How did I get such a weakling son? No ambition, no intelligence, no worth," he spat. "You need to be stronger." And before Draco had time to ponder what his father meant, he was hit by the cruciatus.

In the small corner of his mind that wasn't busy being ripped apart in pain, he realized that he was screaming once again. He was blind with pain, oh it hurt so much more than the earlier invasion of his mind-

And then it stopped. The teenage lay lying, shivering on the carpet, too exhausted to move.

His own father, in one night had used two unforgivables on him, and now he wished his father would perform the third. But he wouldn't. No matter how much he despises his son, Lucius would never kill his scion. He wanted the Malfoy name to continue over all else.

"Get up Draco," his father commanded.

Draco tried, he really did, but his arms just didn't seem to be working right. All the stress of the day was settling in, and he was fairly certain the fever reducing potion was wearing off. It took a lot of willpower not to upchuck right there.

"Pathetic," his father sneered. "Even _Potter_ could deal with a simple crucio, and the Dark Lord was the one who cast it on him. Believe me, you have never felt pain until you've felt the wrath of Lord Voldemort." With a kick to Draco's midsection, Lucius left, slamming the door behind him.

Draco lay trembling for a long time.

* * *

He must've passed out, because when he awoke, all the candles had burned out. All was quiet except for the ticking of magical clocks.

Using only wand light, Draco guided himself through the halls to his sanctuary, taking the extra-long route so as not to run into any midnight wanderers.

He didn't remember the trip to the room, all he could recall was a blur, and then he was sitting in his plush chair, staring out the window at the night sky. He pressed his forehead against the glass, the cool pane easing the warmth of his skin. Only now, totally alone did he let a single tear fall from his eye.

An old childhood question rose to his mind. "Why?" he had asked his mother. "Why doesn't father love me?"

She had said nothing except, "Such displays of emotion are unseemly, Draco," before handing him off to a house elf to put to bed. But he had seen the occasional handprint, and heard her crying sometimes when she thought no one was around. His father didn't care about them, no. All his father cared about were the Dark Lord and Potty-head. It had always been Potter-this and Potter-that. Spy on Potter, blame this on Potter, discredit Potter, do better than Potter. It was enough to cause a severe inferiority complex in anyone, but more particularly in someone who wore a mask of arrogance and went by the name of Draco Malfoy.

He sank back into the chair, looking out at the stars. He was about to get up when movement caught his eye. It was a shooting star!

_Make a wish Draco_, he told himself, recalling the muggle superstition of wishing on stars. _Sure, why not._

Slowly, softly, as if it pained him to say these words, he whispered, "I wish I could trade places with Harry Potter."

Surely he had lots of people who loved and admired him.

Draco sighed softly, and with his head in his arms, the sad, broken boy drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Please review(:

I'd appreciate it, even if you just say 'This was great,' or 'This was horrible.'


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Well. I had every intention of updating right away, but my father decided to clean the house and shoved the notebook the story is written in into the back of a closet and I only found it today :/ Sorry for the long wait!

Chapter 2

He was flying, soaring in the air without a broomstick. His earthly body was gone, and he could do whatever tricks he wished in the air. It was the true meaning of freedom, and Draco Malfoy reveled in it. He stuck out his tongue at his house, and sped off in a random direction, doing loops and feints and anything that struck his fancy. It was glorious and exciting and fun, and then suddenly it stopped. He felt a sharp yank to his spirit, and then the next thing he knew it was morning.

Draco woke without opening his eyes, as if that simple act would stop the world around him from being real, as if that would prolong the dream and delay the inevitable. His legs throbbed where they had been whacked and his stomach from where he'd been kicked. Even with his eyes closed, he had no refuge. He was tired of crying like a girl, so instead he just sighed and snapped his fingers for a house elf.

He waited a second, but none answered his call. He considered throwing a tantrum, but was too tired for that. _Great_, he thought, _Now father has stopped the elves from tending to me_. Draco began to feel very sorry for himself, but a sharp tap on the door and a shrill voice startled him so badly that his eyes flew open and he flailed around, almost falling out of the bed.

_What the hell?_

"Get up boy! Right this instant! The table needs to be cleared off and after that I'll give you the List."

Draco's eyes raked the room blurrily, uncomprehendingly, and his mind filled with sleep-fog was no faster to catch up as to what was going on. Who was making that terrible racket? And how had they found him in his hideaway. It took him a second to realize he wasn't in his hideaway at all. He wasn't in his own room either. In fact, he didn't think he was in the manor at all. Not any part he recognized anyway.

Without thinking about it consciously, one arm snaked out and put on a pair of glasses. It was completely habitual, and Draco didn't notice it was happening, except suddenly everything was much clearer.

The room itself was small but tidy, though why it was filled with broken objects, he had some trouble understanding. The bed, now that he thought about it, was sort of lumpy and uncomfortable, not at all like his luxurious bed at home. How he'd mistaken it for his own, he was not sure.

_Where am I?_

He threw his covers off and immediately noticed two things that were more than slightly alarming. One, for some strange, humorous reason, he had been redressed during the night into some muggle pajamas. Two, he had somehow magically gotten really tan while he slept, and Draco had never been tan in his life. He examined his arms interestedly; it was nice, though sure to clash with his hair, unless that too had been altered. He got out of bed to look.

He looked through the mirror and was very surprised to find it was actually a window and Harry Potter was staring at him. He yelped and stumbled back. Harry took a step back as well.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" He demanded angrily, not noticing the room beyond Potter was identical to the room he was standing in, except reverse.

Harry had mouthed the same thing at him at the same time, also looking quite annoyed. Draco crossed his arms. Harry copied him. Draco was about to walk away from the window when something made him stop. There was something off about this whole deal. He took a step closer, and Potter did the same. He raised one arm, and so did Potter. He stuck out his tongue, and so did Potter.

He was very unnerved. "Stop that!" he shouted at the same time as Potter.

Suddenly a very horrible thought occurred to him. What if the window wasn't a window. What if it was exactly what he'd thought it at first. What if it was a mirror?

_But that's impossible. That would mean I'm Potter, and I'm clearly not._

Except he was. The skin tone was identical, and the boy on the other side was in the exact same room, wearing the same clothes, and when Draco felt his forehead, he definitely felt a scar there.

_Oh Merlin._

If Draco had been the fainting or screaming type (and he'd been in the past), he would have done both at that moment. As it was, his knees were feeling dangerously weak.

One last, hopeful thought occurred to him. _Maybe I'm dreaming._

Draco slapped himself, hard. _Ow. No, definitely not a dream._

He peered into the mirror, desperately wondering what was going on. What force in the universe would be powerful enough to switch out Harry Potter's soul with his own. And why would anyone do that either? And where had Potter gone?

Draco felt his stomach drop as it occurred to him that maybe Harry Potter was occupying his own body. Embarrassment flooded him and his cheeks burned. No, that was ridiculous.

There was another knock at the door. The voice was back, and it sounded angry. "What are you doing? Get up right now. Don't make me come in there." Footsteps signaled the person walking away, and Draco ignored them. It was no one he recognized, and they couldn't possibly be talking to him anyway.

He was Harry-bloody-Potter!

He looked at himself, fascinated. He pinched a cheek and pulled, making sure this wasn't some horrible, elaborate prank. Not that anyone would bother doing something like this to him. Draco wiggled his eyebrows, and watched interested as Harry Potter did the same thing. He smiled as wide as he could, and then used his fingers to pull it wider.

_This is so weird!_

He traced the scar again, just to be sure it was real. Then he sneered at the reflection, but it just looked so odd on Potters face that he burst out laughing. He didn't know how long he stood in front of the mirror, but obviously it was too long, since the shrill voice returned, and now he had a face to attach to it. A thin, horsy face. She was no one he recognized, so he figured this must be Potter's muggle guardian. She looked livid.

"Your load has just been doubled, and you're not going to have time for breakfast, come on boy." She looked at him in disgust and pulled an old t-shirt and ratty jeans from a drawer and threw them at him. He looked at them, the muggle clothes, and then at the guardian.

"Be quick," she said, pursing her lips, and turned her back to him. He dressed in record time, but the jeans felt really weird to be wearing, and all the clothes seemed to hang of him. Potter did not dress well at all.

He turned to look in the mirror again, and realized he looked really tiny and young in his getup. Suddenly there was a pain in his ear. Potter's guardian had dug her fingernails into the tender flesh of his ear and was dragging him downstairs.

"Ow, ow, ow," he whined, putting up no resistance at all. "Stop. You can't do this to me, do you know who I am? Ouch!"

"Course I know who you are, stupid. You're a freeloader. And you know what we do with freeloaders? Put them to work."

Draco gaped at her as he was propelled into the kitchen. "Clean the table and put everything in the dishwasher."

"Dish- washer?" he muttered to himself, confused. The kitchen was full of strange contraptions, none of which he recognized at all. He was just about to call for a house elf when he remembered that Potter's guardians were muggles, and Potter didn't have a house elf. _Ha,_ Draco thought, strangely pleased.

Horsey-faced left him to his own devices, so he went to the table and picked up a dish. It had the remains of something sticky all over it, syrup and pancakes, if he had to guess. He had no idea where a dishwasher was, so he went about opening all the strange devices in the kitchen, looking for other dishes. He had just opened a small-ish container with a number pad on the side when the shrill woman returned.

"No work done at all? Honestly. And what are you doing with the microwave boy? Dish-wash-er," she said, speaking like he was slow, and opening up a machine he hadn't tried yet. Draco timidly went over and put the dish in. Then he went back for the rest. He had to do this under the woman's watchful eye, it was like she didn't trust him to do the job properly or something.

It was odd for Draco, because wizard plates didn't need anything to get clean. You just said the spell word and then poof, the plate was clean. That reminded him that he needed to get a hold of Potter's wand, so he turned to the woman hopefully.

She was glaring at him. "If you don't shape up, you're not going to get any dinner tonight." She turned away and started muttering to herself before he could ask her anything. "Honestly, acting stupid. He's been doing this since he was six. Am I going to have to get ready for this tea by myself."

_Since he was six?_ Draco's eyebrows went up. He was almost feeling something akin to pity for Potter. But he squashed that emotion very quickly.

"Um, excuse me," he tried, thinking about the wand again. If he could just get a wand, things would be much simpler.

"Now," she said, turning and ignoring his words. "Vernon is coming home early today, so I want the lawn clipped and my flowerbed weeded. Also, the living room needs dusting and the trash needs to be taken out. I'm having someone over for tea at four, so you better be done by then. I don't want to see your face around here until at least eight o'clock."

Draco stared at her, uncomprehendingly. She really wanted him to do all that! There was no way, that was all house elf work! It was that moment he decided he couldn't stand to live with mudbloods until the end of the summer, that was too horrible to contemplate. Especially mudbloods who made him do chores! He had to get out, to find someone and tell them so they could fix it and he could go back-

_Back to what Draco,_ said a snide part of his mind,_ to getting beat by your father and cursed by the Dark Lord? Little chores are nothing compared to that, and besides, once you're at school, you'll be treated like a king. Like you deserve. You are the boy-who-lived. You should be having some fun with this._

Still, he had to admit, he hadn't been expecting to do chores. To be totally honest, he actually imagined something like reclining on velvet and getting hand fed grapes while he was fanned gently. Funny how that wasn't how life went.

"Boy," the woman barked, "If you don't get moving soon, I'll make you mop the kitchen too."

Draco frowned and hopped too. He really, _really_, did not want to have to mop the kitchen on top of all the other things he was supposed to be doing. Before he went in search of the living room, he stopped to ask. "Hey, um," (He realized he didn't know Potter's guardian's name, but didn't think much of it, since she didn't seem to know Potter's either) "Do you know where my wand is?" he inquired casually. Magic would clean things up in no time. What he wasn't expecting was her reaction.

"How should _I_ know?" she demanded shrilly, looking both terrified and angry. "It should be locked up again, but I know you've hid it. Besides, you know you aren't allowed to even mention that… freakish-ness in _my_ house." And then she boxed his ears.

Draco almost fell over, he was so shocked. He would have never, ever, guessed that Pot-heads family was so anti-magic. But more importantly, Harry's wand was hidden, or locked up, and Draco had no way of finding it. Still, that had to be his first priority. He turned right into the rag thrown in his face.

"Get going," the guardian told him, pale and shaking, and pointed in the direction of the living room.

"Hang on," Draco said contemptuously, "There's something I need to get from Pot- I mean, my room."

"No," the woman practically screamed. "Just go clean the living room!"

Draco almost flinched, but left quickly. The mudblood was clearly insane, and there'd be time to look for it later. _Patience Draco_.

The living room was much smaller than his own grandiose one, though no one actually did much living in the one at the manor, his mother preferred the privacy of her own room and the gardens. His father claimed the library and study, and Draco was left to sulk out of sight and in his own special place.

Not that this living room looked very lived in, it was so neat and tidy. He didn't know how much cleaner the room could get, and for a moment he thought he might have gone to the wrong room.

"You better be working boy," the woman shouted, but he ignored her in favor of looking around. The fireplace was bricked over, and it looked recent, like it had just been done. He peered closer, curiously, wondering why anyone would brick over a perfectly good means of transportation when he noticed that some of the bricks and mortar looked older. Obviously something had happened and they had bricked it over again. Funny ideas these muggles had.

He shrugged and continued his inspection. The furnishings looked nicer than they actually were, and there were loads of pictures everywhere.

Draco was shocked to see that none of them moved. "What the hell?" he murmured, poking one with a finger. The inhabitants didn't even blink. "Well, that's odd," he continued, out loud, and looked at the other ones. There were a few of the guardian, and a few of a walrus looking man, who Draco assumed was Vernon, or Vermin, or whatever his name was. The rest were all of a big blond whale, who was obviously the pride of the family. Oddly enough, there were no photographs of Harry.

Draco shrugged. Maybe they had a shrine for him up somewhere else. Oh well.

"I mean it, you better be dusting!"

Draco jumped at the shrill voice. _I'll never get used to that. Ever._ He looked at the cloth in his hand and wondered what he was supposed to do. Polish the mantel? He tried to recall what the house elves did, and was rewarded with a vague memory of Lully using house elf magic. _Well that's no help._

Hesitantly, he ran the cloth along the mantle, around photos and a vase. That done, he shook the cloth out and went over to the bookshelf, where he repeated the process. _Hey, this is kind of easy!_ Draco smirked. _I'm done already._

He looked around but the woman was nowhere in sight, so he decided to look for Potter's wand. He'd made it as far as to the kitchen again when the Voice startled him again.

"What do you think you're doing? Don't step there! Can't you see I'm cleaning the floor!" she shouted, shooing him off the wet tiles. "You can't possibly be done already."

Draco pouted, _But I am!_

She put her hands on her hips and clucked at him. "Let's go in there together and check, shall we?" Draco shrugged and followed her. He was very upset when she made rude noises at his cleaning job, and shot him a dirty look.

"You call this done? What is wrong with you today? Are you sick or something?" She took several steps back as if he was contagious.

"Yes," Draco moaned, seizing on the opportunity. "Terribly ill, I think I have a fever and a stomach ache."

"Don't be stupid," she muttered, taking another step back. "Are you going to throw up?"

"Uh, no?" Draco replied. She would probably make him clean that up too.

"Well then, you can still clean. Just keep your mouth covered and don't breath on anything."

_Crap._ "I mean, yes, yes I think I will right now."

"Stop lying. It's not funny. Don't expect lunch." Yet she pushed him off the carpet and onto the wooded floor of the front hall all the same.

Draco was in shock. _What are they going do? Starve me?_ He thought incredulously. _But they can't! I'm the bloody boy-who-lived!_

"Never mind that," the woman continued. "I'll do all the indoor work," she grumbled. "You, outside, now. Lawn needs mowing, windows need washing, and my flowerbeds aren't going to weed themselves."

Draco found himself pushed outside and the door locked behind him. _Seriously?_ _It's going to be a really hot day, I don't want to be outside._ When he turned around and knocked, no one answered. _Bloody hell._

Seeing nothing else he could do, Draco went to go find the mythical beast called the lawnmower. When he went around to the back of the house, he assumed that it was the shiny red object set out for him. It was gleaming in the early morning sun. No idea the spell word to start the thing, he instead circled it several times warily, looking for instructions. The only thing he found was a crude cartoon of a stickman pulling the string on a label pasted onto the handle of the machine.

Shrugging, he walked to the front of it, and pulled the string carelessly.

The red beast let loose a roar and Draco fell over screaming, and then scrambled backwards, breathing heavily. The mower became silent once more, and Draco watched it untrustingly, waiting for it to come to life again. After ten minutes of silence, Draco unfroze and crept closer. He reached for a wand that wasn't there, swallowed his fear, and nudged it with a foot. Nothing happened, so with trembling fingers, he reached for the string again. Gingerly, he pulled, and leapt back when it made another roar, but this time he didn't yell or fall over. He pulled the string again almost immediately and was rewarded with a steady hum.

Draco hesitantly stepped up to the bar and gave the machine a little push. _Weird, it seems to make long grass short, in a completely non-magical way. Dare I say this is a little ingenious? Scary, but ingenious. _

It took Draco three hours to mow the lawn to horse-face's specifications, and he kept having to stop to empty the bag. As the morning wore on, he began to hate muggles more and more. After he was finished, he had to do something called 'edging.' He did a terrible job of it.

When he pounded on the back door, he was rewarded with a bucket of soapy water, a sponge, and drying cloths. The sun was beating down and the temperature was starting to rise. Draco was tempted to pour the water all over himself, but refrained since he didn't want to get into any more trouble and he wanted be let back into the house.

Draco also noticed that while his mind was screaming in hunger and boredom, his body had yet to complain once. It more than a little unnerved him, and he set to work to keep his mind busy.

Yet the work was very dull and repetitive and left plenty of room for bored musing. Mostly about Potter. Draco had lots of pieces of Potter's home life now, but refused to put them together. The family was just building character, trying to de-swell Potter's head. He snorted. _Yeah, right._

Still, since that line of thinking was getting awfully uncomfortable, Draco instead turned to wondering what Potter was doing in his body. Probably getting beaten by his father. That line of thinking was also uncomfortable and more than a little embarrassing, so instead Draco tried to think of what could have caused the body switching and how to fix it.

But deep down inside, in a part of him he refused to acknowledge, Draco knew he really didn't want to switch back. He'd take chores any day to living at home. Malfoy was washing the last window when he realized with a horrible sinking feeling just how this had come about.

_My wish. Oh Merlin, my wish. I've always been warned, 'Be careful what you wish for.' And to fix it, I'll probably have to wish on another star. That's powerful magic._

He groaned. He'd brought this upon himself, and he wasn't likely to see another shooting star for ages.

Still wallowing in self-pity about how horrid it would be to live with muggles, he moved on to weeding. It was lucky he had Herbology as a class, otherwise he would have been sure to mess that up as well. It was another mindless task, and for some reason, his mind went back to Potter's guardian barking orders at him. It reminded him unpleasantly of how he treated his own house elves, and he didn't like being on the receiving end one bit. Still, he had his own excuses that made it all right in his own mind.

_It's not like they're people anyway._

Angrily, he yanked out another weed and threw it onto the freshly mowed lawn. Vindictively, he hoped it would take root and grow. Another weed joined it, and soon there was a pile, and then he was finished.

When the sun was blazing overhead, he finished. He didn't know the time, but he assumed it was near three-ish. He was sunburned, despite his dark skin, his back ached from being hunched over, and he really wanted to poke through Potter's things. He tried the back door, and when that proved impossible to enter by, he went around to ring the doorbell.

Walrus moustache man was just getting out of his car and the woman was standing in the doorway with a horrible fixed smile on her face. The entire tableau was rather amusing, so he sniggered a little.

"What are you laughing at boy?" He roared ominously, moustache wobbling alarmingly.

"My name is Harry Potter," said Draco Malfoy, just to see what would happen.

"I know your name boy!" He yelled again.

"Vernon please," the woman begged. "The neighbours!"

Vernon, as it was, turned to her. "Of course Petunia. Scram boy."

Draco did not to be told twice. He turned tail and fled. There was something extremely menacing about the man, and it reminded him a bit of his father, even though the two men were as different as it was possible to be.

He wandered the neighbourhood for a little while, until he found a quaint little muggle park, filled with young children and their mothers. It was an odd sight to him, the playground. He'd never seen one before, and it actually looked kind of fun. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

The sandbox intrigued him, as did the big metal climbing frame, and the slide. He wanted to try them out, but didn't want to embarrass himself in front of all these other people. Instead he put on a haughty expression and crossed over to the suspended seats. It surprised him greatly when his moved when he sat down. He was even more surprised by the fact mothers were watching him warily and keeping their children close.

_What is Potter not telling people?_ He asked himself as whispers followed him. Didn't these mudbloods know that he was the wizarding savior of the world?!

Draco groaned in frustration at things not going as planned, and instead tried to swing like the little children next to him. Since they could do it, it couldn't be that hard, right?

Wrong. Draco spent the better part of a minute trying and failing to get his swing into motion and keep it going.

The girl to his left slowed and stopped. "No, like this," she told him, demonstrating pumping her legs to swing higher.

Draco hesitantly copied her, taking a minute to get the rhythm of things. Once he knew how, it was really easy. He grunted his thanks, but looked up a moment later to see the little girl staring at him. "What do you want?" he barked.

She just looked at him, "You're Harry Potter."

_Finally!_ "Yes, yes I am."

"My mummy says you're a cri- crim- a bad guy."

"What?" _Are you kidding me? Potter's as far from bad as you can get! _"Why?"

The little girl shrugged, and just then a woman's voice was calling out, 'Mary-Anne, come here this instant,' worriedly. Mary-Anne waved to Draco and went to see her mother, who scolded her for a moment, and then shot Draco a nasty glare and sent her daughter to the sandbox.

Draco was disturbed and hurt by this. Being Harry Potter meant that everyone respected and looked up to him. Why could he never get the attention he craved, even with a different face and name!

Brushing all thoughts away, he swung by himself. It was almost as good as flying. Well, not really, but for a mudblood with their eyes closed it might be.

Dinner time rolled around and most of the children left. There were a couple of twelve year olds who had their heads together around something most likely illegal, and weren't paying any attention to Draco. He went to the slides, and cautiously slid down one. It wasn't that fun, but it was novel, which was great. "Whee," he whispered to himself, and then went to investigate the climbing frame.

Darkness fell and then the boys left. Draco was truly alone, sitting on top of the frame, pretending to be king of the hill. He was bored, tired, hungry, and sore. All he wanted was a house elf and his bed, but all he had was a crotchety old woman named Petunia and a lumpy matchbox of a bed.

Sighing, he slid down the frame and tried to remember the way he'd come. Eventually he just picked a direction and walked in it. By pure chance he came across number four Privet Drive, he'd recognize that lawn anywhere.

A light was on in the living room, so Draco, using all the skills he'd acquired sneaking by his father, quietly eased open the front door and tiptoed past the living room and up the stairs to his room. It was the door with the dead bolt on the _outside_ and the cat-flap but no cat. The room that wasn't quite right.

Draco locked the door from the inside and collapsed on the bed, exhausted. What a day.

Still, curiosity and need were powerful, so eventually Draco managed to prop himself up and look around. Absently, he brushed the lightning scar, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Green eyes looking back at him were almost too much to take, it was just too weird! And the hair, it was everywhere! _Hasn't Potter heard of a comb?_ Draco sneered, before getting off the bed completely.

_Now. If I were a wand, where would I be?_ Draco's eyes immediately went to the nightstand. There was nothing there except a wizarding photograph of a dancing couple, which he ignored in favor of pawing through the drawers. _There! At the bottom!_ Sure enough, it was Potter's wand. _Success!_

Draco grabbed it and smiled, waving it around. Ignoring the no-magic rule, since his father paid off officials to let him do magic at home in the summer, and conveniently forgetting he wasn't at home, Draco tried to cast a spell. Not much happened, except some sparks. Try as he might, Draco couldn't get much else to happen. It seemed like Potter's wand just didn't like him.

"Stupid," he muttered and threw the wand onto the bed. Just then a bowl of soup was pushed through the cat flap. He heard footsteps going down the stairs and he vaulted the bed to get to it. Merlin he was hungry. But what was the deal with the cat-flap? He shrugged and started to eat, then spit it out. The soup was cold and disgusting. He was a Malfoy, he wasn't going to eat this! He was about to unlock the door to go give Petunia a piece of his mind when he heard a soft hooting.

Potter's owl, the snowy Hedwig was in the window. Draco left the food outside the door and went to go pet the majestic bird. The bird in question flew away from him and to her cage. Draco held out a hand, but the bird ignored him. He was hurt, he'd seen scar-heads bird love up on him loads of time. It was like it could tell he wasn't Potter. But that was ridiculous.

"Well, fine, be that way," he muttered as the bird turned her nose up at him once again. Instead he went to poke through Potter's drawers and closet, looking for some hint of magic. It wasn't until he was under the bed that he struck gold. There was a loose floorboard and underneath were letters, textbooks, and some cauldron cakes. Draco ate all the cakes and flipped through the letters idly. There were several from Granger, and some from Weasel, but they told Draco nothing about anything, except the two were exceedingly dull. There were also some letters from the notorious convict Sirius Black, which Draco expected he could get quite a sum for.

Exciting as it all was, Draco was starting to have trouble focusing as fatigue set in. So he moved the wand, took off the glasses and laid down. His last coherent thought was, _Huh, guess the grass isn't always greener on the other side._

A/N: Spelling errors are my bad, sorry. As always, review(:


End file.
